by Henry Perez
“Do they draw much of a crowd, Sean?”
After the twenty seconds or so that it apparently took him to conjure a comeback, Moriarity said, “Today it seems like there’s one too many.”
“Look, Sean, I’m sorry about yesterday. I talked to Nikki about it, but she was just trying to have some fun. She didn’t understand.” That wasn’t entirely true, but Chapa’s apology seemed to break the ice a little.
A few minutes later Moriarity was telling him about the various issues that the Business Council dealt with, including zoning recommendations, business contracts, and deals to bring new commerce into town. He explained that each council member had been nominated by the mayor or some other official, and approved by the City Council, which, according to Moriarity, “rubberstamps everything.”
As each member of the council wandered in and took a seat at the table, Moriarity would give Chapa the skinny on who was who.
“The tall guy with the horn-rimmed glasses is Dex Ferguson, a former alderman.”
“I remember, he resigned after they caught him in his car at the Sunset Drive-in with an ounce of coke on the dash and a nude college girl on his lap.”
“Yeah, but then he went on to make a couple mil and all was forgiven. The guy next to him is Charles Stoop, owner of the Chicago area’s largest landscaping firm. He does all of that sort of work around here.”
Stoop had a flat, pasty complexion, which Chapa thought seemed odd for a man in the landscaping business. Apparently having noticed the two reporters talking about him, Stoop walked over and handed Chapa his business card.
“I’ve already got a few, thanks,” Moriarity said as Stoop fumbled for another card.
Stoops nodded, then returned to his chair.
“The chubby guy is Tony Villanueva,” Moriarity said, continuing his roll call.
“Oh, I know Tony. Used to be a hack writer for the Oakton Observer. I heard they rewarded his bad work by kicking him upstairs.”
“That’s right. He’s head of some department there now and sits on boards like this one.”
“And why would he do that?”
“Because it keeps someone from your paper or mine from sitting there.”
That made sense. As far back as Chapa could remember the Observer had been as passive about reporting the news as its name suggested. Though it had a decent circulation, especially by present-day standards, it was more of an extension of the city’s public relations department than a real newspaper.
“Who’s the old guy from soap opera central casting?”
“He’s a doctor.”
“Of course he is.”
“That’s Dr. Walter Bendix, a former surgeon who made a lot of money buying and developing land.”
“He looks important.”
“Oh, Dr. Bendix is. And he works with all sorts of charities, even volunteers his time.”
A middle-aged woman of Amazonian proportions walked in, and appeared to disrupt Moriarity’s train of thought.
“That’s Vanny Mars,” he said, lowering his voice. “She’s one of the Clinton Avenue Cougars.”
“The Clinton Avenue what?”
Vanny Mars was as tall as any man in the room. Her hair looked like it had been dyed so many times it was no longer a clearly defined color, but instead something between dark beige and burgundy.
When she sat down Chapa noticed that her shoulders were wider than the chair’s broad backrest. Moriarity explained that Vanny was the city’s numbers cruncher, the person who made sure the deals worked on paper. A former CPA with dreams of grandeur. But her true claim to fame came a year ago when she thought up the slogan Oakton—It Sizzles!
“That slogan is on signs all over town.”
“Maybe I should go ask her for an autograph,” Chapa whispered to Moriarity.
“I’m sure she’d give it to you without batting one of those ridiculous false eyelashes.”
They kept making their way in, and Moriarity continued to play the role of the know-it-all at the ballpark who’s committed every player’s batting average to memory. There was Greg Vinsky, a man Chapa guessed to be in his late thirties or early to mid forties, with light features and thick dark hair. According to Moriarity, Vinsky owned a consulting business, and had helped broker a number of deals for the city. And Franklin Gemmer, who’d moved there just a few years back and started a successful security alarm company.
“Clay Hunter runs an insurance firm, Harvey Nestor owns a chain of drugstores, Mario Melendez is a consultant, Ted Bruce is a PR guy, and Dick Wick provides legal counsel for the city.”
Chapa was still listening, but he’d been distracted by a new member of the gallery.
“You may not realize this, Alex, but more than half of these people moved here in the past few years, after the new mayor was elected and reached out to businessmen beyond Oakton’s borders.”
“Um hmm.” Chapa was staring at the man sitting alone in the back row. He was wearing a slate gray suit that reminded Chapa of the one Cary Grant wore in North by Northwest. The suit fit him so well that it almost seemed organic, a part of his body like a second skin or outer shell. He had deep set eyes that were fixed on Chapa. Just as they had been the first time Chapa noticed him.
“But what this council actually does,” Moriarity, still in a zone of his own, whispered, “is make sure no competition moves in and hurts their businesses.”
“Sean—” Chapa blurted, stopping Moriarity in midsentence. “The guy in the expensive suit, back row, far right, who is he?”
Chapa hoped Moriarity would be cool, assumed he wouldn’t have to tell him to be. He was wrong.
“Him I don’t know,” Moriarity said after pivoting all the way around and looking straight back. “Nice suit, though.”
“But he’s looking right at me.”
“No, not really. He appears to be reading the newspaper on his lap.”
“Yours or mine?”
Moriarity squinted, then the expression on his face withdrew into disappointment.
“Can’t tell.”
Chapa figured he would have the entire length of the hour-long meeting to decide whether or not to confront the guy in the suit. But Mr. Brooks Brothers in the back row became a secondary concern after Chapa recognized the last council member to arrive.
“I’ve seen him before. He was knocking around the crime scene.”
“Sure he was,” Moriarity whispered. “That’s George Forsythe, he’s the area’s leading electrical contractor. The city’s safety and standards division, and the police always call him in when there’s a problem or an incident.”
Chapa spent the next several minutes fixed on George Forsythe, almost forgetting about the curious man in the back row. He would approach Forsythe when the meeting was over, and this time there would be no police to stop him from asking his questions and getting some answers.
As the meeting was drawing to a close, Chapa checked the batteries on his tape recorder, and turned to a fresh page on his notepad. Vanny Mars was bellowing about a zoning issue when she was interrupted by the sound of even louder voices in the hall outside the room.
Chapa looked back in the direction of the noise, purposely avoiding eye contact with the man in the gray suit, and assumed that the next gaggle of white-shirted warriors had started their meeting a bit early. But when Warren Chakowski burst into the room clutching a hunting rifle, Chapa knew he was wrong about the noise, and any conversation with George Forsythe would have to wait.
Chapter 24
Though he’d never owned one, Chapa knew a little about rifles and shotguns, and the difference between the two, from a series he’d written back in the 90s about militia groups. The stories earned him an award that he didn’t care about, and a raise that wasn’t big enough. But they also earned him some hate mail and several sleepless nights as Chapa waited for some gun nut to show up at his door seeking retribution.
As far as he could tell, the weapon Warren Chakowski was pointing at everyone
and no one in particular was long and powerful and probably loaded.
“Somebody here knows something about what happened to my brother, and we’re all going to find out what it is.”
Warren jerked the weapon from side to side like he was expecting a target to emerge at any moment. Chapa slowly raised his hands and eased out of the chair.
“This isn’t the way to do this, Warren,” Chapa said in a voice so calm that for an instant he wondered if he’d actually spoken. “Nothing good is going to happen this way.”
Warren, confused, looked as though Chapa had just spoken to him in a foreign language. But a moment later the fog seemed to clear.
“Why are you here, Alex?”
“Same reason as you. Just trying to get at the truth.” That wasn’t the truth, not entirely. But at this moment, truth was whatever it took to disarm Warren Chakowski. “And bringing a gun into this building is not the way to go about it.”
“Yeah, you better put that gun down, numbnuts.” It was Vanny Mars. “You got a choice of either cutting this crap out right now or getting your ass kicked by the men in this room.”
A few of the men at the table looked at one another, they appeared confused. Chapa gestured to her with an open palm, as if to say, I have this under control.
“After I talked to you this morning, Alex, I started thinking and thinking, and the more I thought about it all the more angry and scared I got.”
“You should be scared, dickhead.” Vanny hadn’t sat back down, yet.
Chapa decided to give her a little more encouragement. He turned away from Warren and marched toward the table.
“Lady, will you please be quiet, huh? Really. Shut the fuck up!”
She flashed one of those people don’t talk to me that way looks that people who should be talked to that way sometimes cultivate.
“Fine. I don’t have to help at all,” Chapa heard her say as he turned his attention back to Warren and the rifle he was now pointing at someone, anyone, his finger coiled around the trigger.
Chapa took a breath, then stepped into the line of fire. Warren refused to make eye contact.
“No, Warren,” Chapa said, shaking his head as he took measured steps toward the rifle. Warren began to tremble.
What Warren couldn’t see, in the doorway behind him were two police officers, guns drawn and trained on his back. Tom Jackson stood behind an officer who was squatting, arms extended toward Warren, a large black pistol in his hands. Jackson was signaling Chapa to move away, but he had no intention of giving them a clear shot.
When Chapa was just two or three feet from him he caught a whiff of Warren’s cologne—Jack Daniels’s, Old No. 7. Now Chapa knew how Warren had spent the hours after their conversation in his brother’s office.
“Seems a little early to be communing with the spirits, Warren,” Chapa said as he slowly reached up and put his hand around the gun barrel.
Warren looked at him, but his eyes, so red with hurt Chapa feared they might burst, refused to settle on any one thing. A drop of sweat slid down Chapa’s cheek, and he heard the sound of ceiling fan blades swooshing above. Had those been there the whole time?
“They’re gonna kill me too, Alex. I’m next, I know it.”
Chapa came up close, put an arm around Warren’s back, and watched Jackson’s face shift from healthy pink to just a shade shy of crimson.
“No, Warren, no one is going to kill you. I won’t let them.”
Warren made eye contact with him again, and Chapa shook his head in a way that was gentle but confident. When Chapa tightened his grip on the rifle, Warren offered no resistance.
As his fingers slowly retreated from the weapon, Warren leaned in close to Chapa and whispered, “Damn thing ain’t even loaded. I never shot any animals, either. I just liked tracking them. Jim knew that.”
Chapa knew what would happen the moment he took the gun from Warren.
“Do you have any other weapons on you?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Then I want you to give me this rifle and get down on your knees and put your hands behind your head.”
Warren’s face was awash with confusion.
“Please trust me, Warren.”
“I do,” he said, then handed the rifle to Chapa and did exactly as he’d been told.
Everything changed in an instant.
Police rushed into the room. Chapa stopped counting how many after five of them tackled Warren and pushed his face to the floor.
“He’s not armed!” Chapa yelled as one of the officers screamed at him to drop the rifle. “It’s not loaded,” Chapa said, tossing him the weapon.
“Tom, really. Is all this necessary?”
“Just stay out of the way, Alex.”
Warren was moaning softly as they lifted him by his arms, hands cuffed behind his back, and walked him out of the room. A plainclothes said something to Chapa about having to ask him a few questions, but he was already headed down the hall, calling after Tom Jackson.
“Tom, I consider you a friend, but let’s be clear about this. I will make damn sure anything that happens to Warren Chakowski will also happen to your department.”
“Alex, I’m only here because I was available and responded. But I will try to look after him like he was my own. Is that good enough, Alex?”
“I’ll let you know.”
Chapa watched Warren Chakowski, broken, lost, and under arrest, being hustled away by nearly as many cops as had been investigating his brother’s death the day before. Chapa’s mind was racing from one thought to another as he walked back toward the conference room.
But there was one thing of which he was now certain. If someone was responsible for Jim Chakowski’s death, Chapa was going to do a great deal more than just track them.
Chapter 25
George Forsythe, a small but solidly built man in his late forties who had moved to Oakton four years earlier after his wife died, seemed nervous and fidgety. Chapa had seen this sort of response before, and chalked it up to the anxiety some folks felt around reporters.
He was wearing a dark blue polo with a small patch stitched on the left side that read POWER 4 OAKTON. Chapa had seen the trucks emblazoned with that insignia all over town. Until now he’d assumed they belonged to a utilities company, at least as much as he’d bothered to assume anything.
But standing with its owner in a far corner of the conference room, Chapa now knew that Power 4 Oakton was an electrical contracting firm that had grown very quickly in a few short years. He’d gleaned some of that info from eavesdropping on the statement Forsythe had given the police. It hadn’t taken long for the cops to get their statements. Each council member had told a variation on the same story.
A guy they’d never seen before came storming into the room with a gun and might’ve shot all of them if Vanny hadn’t confronted him.
Chapa had no professional reason to be talking to George Forsythe, no story to write that begged for an electrician’s quote. Chapa simply had a few unanswered questions poking around in his head, and that was reason enough. Besides, Warren had inadvertently given him some cover. After all, he’d have to write the news story of the most eventful council meeting Oakton had seen in some time.
He’d just started talking to Forsythe when Dick Wick walked up and offered his hand.
“Alex Chapa, right?”
“That’s what they keep telling me.”
“Yeah, I know who you are, seen you around. Nice work today, you seem to have a way with troubled people, like you know what’s going on in their minds.”
Chapa was trying to remember what Moriarity had told him this guy did, while keeping an eye on Forsythe. Wick was about the same age as Chapa, maybe a year or two older. The grooves in his face, some the product of age, others not, suggested that he’d spent some time on the wrong side of the street.
Wick reached in his pocket, pulled out a small thin silver case and removed a business card, which he handed to Chapa.
>
“I serve as legal counsel for various businesses and organizations in the area.”
“Good for you.”
“Hey, I’m sorry about what happened to your fellow journalist, that was too bad.”
Chapa nodded, but said nothing as an uncomfortable silence followed.
“Well, I’m going to lunch,” Wick said finally. “You coming, George?”
“Right behind you.”
Chapa put a hand on Forsythe’s shoulder, felt it tighten under his touch.
“I just need a minute, Mr. Forsythe. I’d like to get some background for my story about the explosion.”
Forsythe looked lost at that moment.
“Okay, but just a minute,” he said, looking in every direction but Chapa’s.
Wick stepped between them.
“You know, George, you don’t have to talk to this man,” he said, then turned to Chapa, winked and smiled as though he was just joking.
He wasn’t joking.
“No, it’s okay, Dick. I’ll be along in a minute.”
Wick nodded—the smile was gone now—and walked out of the room.
Though it didn’t take long before their conversation began to resemble a high-speed Ping-Pong match more than an interview, Chapa had no intention of giving up and letting Forsythe off easy.
“Everything that happened is already in the police report.”
“How do you know that?” Chapa asked, noticing how Forsythe would rhythmically click the pen in his hand.
Click, click, click.
“Because I’m the one who advised them on it.”
“And what led you to such an easy and speedy conclusion?”
“I’ve been at this for a long time. I know what I’m doing.”
The answer had come a bit too quickly and maybe too easily, Chapa thought. Most pros would’ve taken issue with the question, that was the reason Chapa asked it. Maybe he was one of those unflappable, eternally calm people, but Forsythe didn’t come across as that sort.
